


the upper room

by TolkienGirl



Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [345]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Child Neglect, Gen, Glaurung is vile, Gold Rush AU, Maeglin is waiting for someone to rescue him, So far no comers, and then time jumps a month, set at Christmastime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:39:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29132685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: He was never taught to pray, frightened though he still is by waiting shadows. As such, he says no prayers for the feast, cowering hungrily in the dark room. No candle was left him, and even if it had been, he has no matches. Glaurung will see that he is fed and looked in on, after a fashion, but not enough for comfort. Not enough for strength. No tools are permitted him on these mysterious journeys.Without a book of matches or a knife or a canteen of water, how could Maeglin run?
Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [345]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1300685
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	the upper room

The attic window is rimed with layers of old smoke, not frost, but Maeglin feels cold. The now-stale smell of roasted meat, wafting two floors up, only serves to make him colder. He has been relegated to half a dozen attics like this one over the past month; Glaurung always pays a low price for the least desirable room in any inn or eating-house, and orders Maeglin to stay within it while he goes about his business.

Maeglin knows better than to inquire into the nature of Glaurung’s business.

He does not yet know better, however, than to be lonely. That is something that half a dozen attic rooms cannot teach mastery of, if empty years of such beforehand are any proof.

At least in the old days, he had friends.

He blows on his hands to warm them and tries to forget the sour twist in his stomach. It has been almost a day since he has eaten. Glaurung bid him stay after a night ride, without so much as a crust for breakfast. Morning slipped into afternoon, afternoon into black evening, and still: nothing.

At least there was a pitcher of dusty water on the washstand by the window. Maeglin drank that, too thirsty to be precious over its cleanliness.

He must be patient, now, if he is to cling to the shape of his sanity.

The name of the town is Aglon. The day is Christmas day, though now it is ending. Were it not for the scraps of news that reach his ears at the hitching posts, Maeglin would be lost in time. He followed the seasons as well as he could, at the mountain camp, but had little else for reckoning. His trek with Goodley gave him a marker in early December, but he has no mind for dates, and soon forgot.

Numbers, to him, are only fluid and natural when they are working through his hands. How many strikes of the hammer, how many counts while molten metal flowed and cooled…those, he can reckon.

 _A stupid little master_ , Glaurung calls him, and perhaps he is right.

At any rate, Maeglin still has his ears, and so he has learned that it is Christmas.

The news is a little bitter, of course, but he is a boy unused to celebration of any kind. He has entertained himself as best he can with colorful imaginings—trying to fit himself into a place of blissful comfort, far from here, and so unrecognizable that his latest handler could not find him in it. Sometimes his old friends were there; sometimes Russandol was. He conjured and dreamed until the hunger overtook him.

Such imaginings are his sole gift and inheritance. He was never taught to pray, frightened though he still is by waiting shadows. As such, he says no prayers for the feast, cowering hungrily in the dark room. No candle was left him, and even if it had been, he has no matches. Glaurung will see that he is fed and looked in on, after a fashion, but not enough for comfort. Not enough for strength. No tools are permitted him on these mysterious journeys.

Without a book of matches or a knife or a canteen of water, how _could_ Maeglin run?

Glaurung returns some hours later. He has a lantern in hand, and a tin plate with cold meat and bread upon it. Maeglin is doggishly grateful.

“You will have to make me more guns,” Glaurung observes, taking the only chair. The lantern throws yellow tongues of light from its pin-pricked vents. “I’ve sold nearly all our stock. Or should I say—bargained with them.” He stretches his boots out as if weary from a long ride, when in truth he has been installed in whatever place in the tavern would give him the best vantage of all unsuspecting comers. Maeglin has seen enough of Glaurung, now, to see him even when he is not here.

Musingly, Glaurung adds,

“I have made ever so many new friends, Maeglin.”

Maeglin chews and swallows, trying not to look savage.

Glaurung watches him for a moment longer, and presses his lips together so that they all but disappear. He has brought the smell of pipesmoke with him, and alcohol. He says, “Do you know, I have new proof of your skill. And your loyalty.”

Now he is waiting for an answer—a question, really. Maeglin clears his throat and gives one.

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“The guns that came from our half-furred friends a week ago,” says Glaurung, “Were exactly like the guns you have been making me. The men whom I met, with those guns in hand, were straggling envoys of Mountain business.”

A chill, deeper than that of the fireless room, settles on Maeglin’s shoulders. He mislikes, also, how talkative Glaurung is tonight.

“You learned well from your slave-turned-master. You learned well, and you did not try to withhold that knowledge from me. I own myself a little surprised, knowing what I do of your origins.”

Even though he is too afraid to feel shame or reproach, Maeglin finds he does not like to hear Glaurung hint at his origins—at _her_ —any more the fifth time than the first. He stares at the warped tin plate. The food is twisting in his belly.

“I am glad they suit, sir.”

“It took all of this week to take two apart and put them back together again, ensuring that they were like. A stupid little genius, are you? I am sorrier than ever to have to part with any of them.” Glaurung shrugs: a faint, fluid motion. A snake sunning itself, Maeglin thinks. Then he is afraid that Glaurung will somehow read insult on his face, and guess the thought that compared him to a snake. “But we must sacrifice, here and there.”

Maeglin is thirsty. He would drink more of the dusty water, if he could, but the windowsill is on the other side of Glaurung.

“I like our vineyard home well enough,” Glaurung muses. He has not shifted his eyes from Maeglin’s face, but he has removed a knife from his belt and has begun to clean his nails with it. Little, delicate motions. The knife is a gentleman’s toothpick: the handle is elaborate.

Maeglin would have liked to see it closer, in another time. He thinks of the knife he has, the knife he hasn’t shown Glaurung or anyone, and tries not to imagine his hand on it now…tries not to imagine what he could do, if he were braver.

“Maeglin.”

Maeglin’s breath freezes in his throat. “I beg your pardon, sir.”

“Do I bore you?” Glaurung’s face does not change. “This is the second time you have had to beg for that. For my…pardon.”

Maeglin shakes his head.

“We are returning to the vineyard in the morning,” Glaurung says. He puts his knife away. “But I do not think we shall remain there much longer. Once I have made good on my recent investments, I should like to expand my property interests. I have my eye on a new stronghold.”

Maeglin suspects he means Mithrim. But Maeglin will not _say_ Mithrim—a name he has heard only in vicious passing. No doubt Russandol—the real one, not the bold and kindly friend who visits Maeglin in his lonely hours—is buried there already.

The ground will not have hardened overmuch.

“Mithrim,” says Glaurung. “I am speaking of Mithrim. But no doubt an occasionally clever boy like you has already guessed as much. Do you know why I make so free with you in my conversation?”

“No, sir.”

“Don’t be bashful. It is because I am well aware that I have left you both eyes and ears. I keep you close under my wing, Maeglin. I expect you to listen and learn.”

“I understand, sir.” He wishes he hadn’t eaten. It would be easier, now, to sit still and attentive without the sharp discomfort of panic prodding his innards.

“We will bide our time.” Glaurung says. “There is a town not far from Mithrim itself—Hithlum, I believe, it is called. In a month or so, I intend to break much bread there. Bread, and other things.” He smiles again, at Maeglin. Then he rises, lifting the lantern from its place. They will have a better room for the night itself—not that that will make so much difference to Maeglin. He will be lucky to have a pillow as well as a blanket, for the floor.

Maeglin is still cold, and still, after his stomach settles, hungry. Nothing has changed and nothing will change, until the world moves with such awful quickness that _he_ cannot change it in time.

Still, he can be a better master of himself. He can begin to count the days.

A month later, Glaurung has been as good as his word. They are in Hithlum, and Maeglin has been two days in a room tucked in the corner of the only tavern’s second story. Like most towns he has seen this far west, the buildings are simple, clapboard affairs, or else built low and of logs. They are uniformly ugly, and his place in them, uniformly concealed.

Useless.

 _Not useless_ , says Russandol, kindly. He is standing beside the narrow window, which Maeglin is too afraid too approach. Russandol is wearing a fine, walnut-dyed coat, today, for Maeglin wished it so, and Russandol has boots that shine brighter than Glaurung’s.

(Glaurung had a girl here last night, and Maeglin lay rolled against the wall with his hands over his ears, though that was not enough to shut it all out.)

 _Useless_ , he says again, sourly, to Russandol.

 _You could come and look out_ , Russandol suggests. _You might see something of interest._

_I can’t. He’d know._

_He wouldn’t. You know he isn’t out walking about the square—and anyway, he must turn the key in the lock before he returns. Now, now. You’re not a fraidy-cat._

It is generous of Russandol to pretend that.

Maeglin considers. At first, he wondered if Glaurung would expect any help from him, during these enterprising ventures that end with less gold paid out than promises. But it has become all too clear that he is a piece of valuable baggage to Glaurung; something to be carried at all times, like a wallet.

Although—one would not threaten a wallet, or ask it pointed questions, or torment it with long, unblinking gazes. Maeglin has been envying such unassuming objects, of late.

 _Come to the window_ , says Russandol again.

Maeglin knows that Russandol is only a figment of his mind (though he does not like to dwell on the knowledge), and so if Russandol is telling him to act, Maeglin’s own sorry conscience is telling him to act. He is rather surprised, each time Russandol appears, to find that he still has a conscience. An inner voice, at least, capable of uttering kindnesses.

 _Nonsense_ , he tells himself. Better to see Russandol as only Russandol. To prove his Russandol realer than himself, he shuffles across the floorboards until the narrow panes are before him.

They let more light in than he expected, looked through straight-on. He tilts his head down, blinking painfully, and watches the horses stamping at the hitching posts. It is midday. There are frontiersman, regimental soldiers, and fur-laden trappers wandering in the street—and at the posts themselves, one girl.

Maeglin watches the girl. She is feeding the horses apples. Those who are outside her reach strain towards her, their long necks shining almost like metal under the sun.

The girl wears a light-colored short coat and trousers tucked into high boots. Maeglin is astonished by this—even in these parts, most women dress like women—but he is not mistaken as to her nature, he is sure. Her long black braid swinging over her shoulders…her delicate frame…

He watches as she turns sharply, as if her name was called—and he sees her hasten to join a tall, broad-shouldered man with yellow hair under his hat and a great wolfhound trailing at his heels.

They go off together.

Maeglin hears steps in the hall and retreats to the corner, his heart beating fast.


End file.
